Gentle Hands by Thomas Drago
The four men walking behind
me toward Palo Verde Elementary School carried assault rifles. I only knew this because I’d watched CNN
every night since the Newtown shootings last December.
I
could see their reflections in the glass doors as I approached the front
entrance. Not wanting to trigger an alarm, I dropped my gaze, slowly unbuttoned my shirt collar, and loosened my
tie. Like any good teacher, I was prepared to
defend my students with my life.
I
scrambled to text my wife to tell her I love her and to ask her to kiss our
little nine-month-old Sabrina, undoubtedly awake in her crib and shaking her
Winnie the Pooh rattle.
As
soon as I reached into my front pocket, a rough hand fell on my shoulder. I gave into inhibition and turned to face the
second biggest threat of my life, fists clenched.
* * *
I
grew up in an Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn in the 1970’s, the second
youngest of six boys. You can’t imagine
the job my poor mother had wrangling the pack of us with my dad always out on
the road. He hauled coal from Eastern
Pennsylvania in his father’s beaten up Mack truck and always came home on the
weekends blackened and smelling of diesel fuel.
Like most Italian men, he was short-tempered, but he was also very sweet
and gentle and raised a tomato garden on our front porch. I was amazed at the great care he put into
tending those budding plants on Sundays after church.
Clearly his favorite, Papa
let me sit on the steps and listen to him pacify each little fruit while my
brothers were either wrestling in the two bedrooms we all shared upstairs or
racing down the street to Rimpici’s Bakery to grab a couple of loaves of hard
bread for that night’s spaghetti and meatballs.
I could play rough when I wanted but didn’t always feel the need.
If I waited patiently,
Papa’s attention would eventually turn to me.
He’d ask about the Mets if it were summer and casually remind me that he
never forgave the Dodgers for leaving Brooklyn.
“Broke my heart when them
Bums left, Sammy,” he’d always say in his soft, scratchy voice. I’d smile and adjust the brim of my ball
cap.
If I were extra lucky, he’d
call me up to the garden and let me lend a hand tying the plants off to the
lattice. I loved being in his arms as he
wrapped himself around me and guided my fingers, which always seemed so tiny in
his large, plump misshapen ones.
“Gentle hands,” he’d whisper
if I’d snap a branch. “Your hands will
protect you when you need them to. For
now, be gentle.”
Even now, I can feel his
warm breath on my neck and his roughened cheek against mine when he’d kiss me
and tell me to go wash up.
* * *
As
I turned, I lifted my eyes. Each of the
four men wore black berets. One was
clearly the oldest and in charge, and he tightened his grip on my
shoulder. His unshaven face sprouted
grey stubble. His cracked lips opened,
revealing crooked brown teeth as he spoke.
“You’re
gonna keep walking,” he whispered, his face a few inches from mine. His breath smelled unclean. “And when we’re inside, you’re gonna get on
your knees and put your hands behind your head.”
Two
of the younger men chuckled over his right shoulder and shifted their
weapons. The fourth looked past me,
scanning the front windows for activity inside.
Since school wouldn’t start for another 45 minutes, he’d only be able to
spot Flora sitting at the reception desk taking calls for the children lucky
enough to be out sick this morning.
The 60 or 70 students in
Morning Care were in the cafeteria finishing their breakfast with either one of
the assistant principals attending.
“Don’t think so,” I said
calmly and licked my lips.
Each of the four men
staggered a step back. Even the militant
who had been looking through the front windows was a bit stunned. He raised his weapon. The hooking black cartridge pointed up at me
like a twisted dinosaur tongue.
The older man regained his
composure and moved even closer to my face.
His lips barely parted as he spoke.
“I’m not gonna tell you
twice.”
I leaned in, suddenly hoping
to buy some time, because maybe, just
maybe, Flora was watching from inside the school and was calling the police
right now as my heart pounded in my chest.
Just buy some time, I told myself. The first responders were at Sandy Hook in
minutes.
“You’re gonna have to do
better than that,” I replied.
“What - ?”
But before he could
continue, I puffed my chest. “You heard
what I said. You wanna get past me? Pull the trigger. Go ahead.”
“Can you believe this
fucking guy, Carl?” one of the younger men said from behind. He was standing near the flagpole at the
center of the front courtyard. Ray, the
morning custodian, had already raised the flag high above our heads.
“Yeah, Carl,” another
said. “Just take him down already. We need to be in position before the first
bus arrives. We’ve gone over this drill
a hundred - ”
Carl broke his gaze, relaxed
his hand, and turned his face as he started to yell, “Don’t you think I know -
”
But then, I moved. I gave Carl a slight shove and a spin and
reached under his left arm to grab hold of the back of his head. I grabbed his right arm with my free hand and
pulled back, keeping him close to me. He
was somewhat taller, but I could see just over his right shoulder. The rest of him kept me hidden from the other
three assailants. I pushed his head down
and squeezed my fingernails into his arm.
He squealed.
The three others immediately
cocked their weapons as I backed up to a nearby pillar, shielding myself with
Carl. He struggled under my grip but
couldn’t get his balance or move his weapon.
“Should we shoot, Carl?”
“No, of course not, you
idiot!” Carl screamed. “You might hit me!”
I pulled on a large tuft of
Carl’s hair and yanked his head back so I could whisper in his ear. He howled.
“I’ll tell you how this
gonna go down, Carl,” I said. “You
listening?”
Carl slowly nodded his
head. Spittle shot from his lips as he
tried to slow his breathing. The other
three men kept their rifles aimed but quieted enough to hear me speak.
“You think you’re tough?” I
asked. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
“Come on, Carl,” one of the
other men yelled. "We ain’t got time for this.”
I wasn’t even looking
at them now. It was only Carl and me.
“Shut up,” Carl
snapped. His breathing was still
labored.
“You’re not tough,” I
whispered. I was so close to Carl’s neck
I could taste his salty sweat. “Don’t
take no courage to pull a trigger. Tell
your men to put their guns down. Then
I’ll let you take me out fair and square. Hand to hand.
The four of you get past me … the school is yours.”
Everyone was still for a
moment.
Then, the three other militants
glanced at one another. “You think you
can beat the four of us?” one asked.
“All four of us against you?”
Laughter.
Carl tried to get his arm
loose, but I overpowered the older man and held him steady.
“I didn’t say that,” I
answered, lifting my head and voice with confidence. “I might get my ass kicked. Might not.
But, I’ll go down swinging.”
Please, Flora, my mind raced. Please see this.
“Whatta you gotta lose?” I
whispered and then suddenly the sound of police sirens filled the front parking
lot.
Carl abruptly pushed back
against me, smashing my head against the pillar, and I bit his ear, tearing at
the lobe until blood sprayed on my face and collar. Carl screamed and fell to his knees. I dropped with him and kicked his firearm
free as he loosened his grip.
Startled, the other three
militants whirled and ran for cover.
And then tears burned my
eyes.
* * *
Papa died in 1979. He was only 52. I was 12.
I didn’t know anything about colon cancer or even that my dad was sick. Like so many of those in his generation, he
never quit working or sought treatment, from what I recall.
I only knew that my hero was
gone.
My brothers each took the
loss in his own way. Neither was as
devastated as I. At the funeral, the
twins, Rocco and Al, had a shoving match next to my dad’s coffin because they
couldn’t agree on who would walk in front when carrying Papa down to the lawn
at Green-Wood Cemetery. Mama slapped
them both upside their heads and moved me to the front. The twins were put in the middle, each on
separate sides.
Our family drifted apart in
the 1980’s. And it might’ve split even
if Papa had lived longer. My older
brothers just didn’t want to stay in Brooklyn.
The city was beaten and ruined, quite frankly. Joseph, the baby, stayed with my mom until
she passed in 1997, but even he moved to the Pacific Northwest about ten years
ago. He finally married. They’re expecting their first child later
this spring. If it’s a boy, I hope they
name him after Papa.
I was lost without my
dad. My mother would tell me to pretend
he was just out on the road again. But I
knew he wasn’t. I knew the truth.
I’ve never felt as alone as
I did in those years immediately following Papa’s death. I didn’t know whether or not I could survive
without him. The isolation hardened me
at first, and I didn’t realize how much he’d taught me in those quiet moments
we spent tending to his tomato garden.
Not until I finally held my own
child in my hands and remembered what he said about being gentle.
After attending college in
the Southwest, I started teaching and then married later in life. I found myself living in the suburbs of Los
Angeles, less than twenty miles away from Chavez Ravine, where the Dodgers have
called home for over 50 years now.
Papa would be proud.
